In Memoriam
by Delia Soul
Summary: 'From Hell' fic. How did Abberline know who Mary Kelly was at Polly's funeral? After his wife's death, Abberline takes solace wherever he can find it. *Ch 3 up* R&R, please...Abberline would thank you.
1. Frederick

  
  
  
  
...In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sisterVictoria; and we commit her body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her and give her peace. Amen.  
__ the small throng mumbled in hushed tones, their eyes gazing at the plain wooden box resting at the bottom of the dirt pit. One by one the mourners shuffled forward and tossed small bouquets of violets into the grave, crossing themselves as they hurried quickly away, their eyes averted to the trees, the tombs, anything but the yawning pit before them. They spoke a few words of sympathy to the chief mourners, the parents and siblings left behind, a few words of thanks to the priest who had conducted the ceremony. Then, as if it were against their will, they'd spoken at last to him.   
I'm so sorry, sir. She was a good woman.  
She'll be missed, most certainly.  
It came as a shock to us all.  
He nodded at them all dumbly, not raising his eyes from the wood box. They looked at him oddly, spoke in puzzled, hushed voices to each other, and shook their heads sadly before moving away down the road, black-clad heads bobbing in the mist.   
He was left standing under the drooping branches of the willows, a solitary figure clad in black, dwarfed by the trees and tombs that surrounded him. The only breath of life in this city of the dead, the only beating heart among these cold stones. And he didn't seem to notice at all, or if he did, he couldn't have cared less.   
After a few minutes of silence, his ears pricked up at the sound of heavy footsteps crunching through the fallen leaves on the dying grass. He didn't blink an eyelash as the footsteps neared, to finally fall silent beside him. He heard a heavy sigh, then a round voice reciting gentle words. But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ws'st. Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee. The voice paused a moment before continuing. Freddy, go home. This won't do you any good.  
I'm glad you could make it, Peter, he answered, speaking for the first time in hours. His voice was heavy, quiet. Thought you wouldn't come.  
Of course I came, the man said, lacing his fingers behind his back. You don't really think I'd miss it, would you?  
He shrugged, continuing to look at the grave, laying open in the fog. She hated this weather, you know, he said after a while. Victoria. She hated the fog. She hated clouds. he looked up to where the sky was covered in a gray sludge. Doesn't seem fair, does it?  
His friend said nothing, but his eyes drifted to the tombstone sticking out of the dirt, the base of it covered in flowers. _Victoria Hawkins Abberline_, it read. _Devoted wife and mother. May she rest in peace. _Mother...he'd almost forgotten about that. It was easy to forget, he thought, as there was only one coffin in the pit. Her husband, liked as he was at the Yard, couldn't have possibly scrounged up enough for two.   
he began quietly, putting a hand gently on the younger man's shoulder. Why don't you come back to my place for a while, at least until you can get all your affairs together? Jane would be glad to have you, and it might be easier, to have other folks around.  
No, thank you, he answered quickly, then looked up to search his friend's face. I didn't mean...I wouldn't want to impose on you, he said finally. And it's better. It is, it is better if I stay at home. I need to settle things with her family. he paused. And the dog. I can't leave George alone.  
Then bring the blasted dog with you! We won't _mind_ if he soils the bloody carpet, and we're... he stopped as he noticed Freddy's face go still again. I'm sorry, he said. I respect your wishes. You know I do.  
He nodded. Thank you, he said, then looked across the cemetery to where a pair of jackdaws fought over a scrap of rubbish. They didn't even say that they were sorry, do you know that? he asked, resentment creeping into his voice. They wouldn't even talk to me. Hardly looked at me once through the funeral. It would have been the least they could have done.  
Who's this, her family?  
_Yes_, her family! he said sharply, his face clouding up. They blame me, did you know _that_, Sergeant Godley? They've always hated me, always thought I was dirt, and now, apparently I'm responsible for this, too. They've blamed me for every damn thing that's happened to her over the past few years, and now...now... he trailed off and wiped his hands down his face. Oh, God. Oh, _God_.  
He took a breath, watching his friend's haggard face. Freddy, you had no way of knowing. It happens all the time. It could have happened to anyone.  
It didn't, though, he answered quietly. It happened to Victoria. he sighed in resignation, his brown eyes glassy and vacant. Maybe it was my fault, he said. Maybe if I'd been something else, a doctor or a lawyer, and not a stupid bloody _policeman_, than this wouldn't have happened. Maybe I could have got her to hospital then, instead of just getting a bloody midwife. Maybe...maybe she'd be alive. Maybe my son would be alive. Just maybe...   
Now, you listen to me, Freddy, Godley said sternly. It wasn't your fault. I want you to get that out of your head, _now_. Do you hear me, Freddy? _It wasn't your fault.  
_But Godley had no way of knowing if the young man had even heard. He didn't move a muscle, his face worn and haggard. I am a sorry son-of-a-bitch, aren't I? he said at last. Shouldn't be getting so emotional, like. Not proper.  
Screw being _proper_, Godley spat, shoving his hand into his pocket. His fingers tightened around a small roll of bills, and he pulled it out. he said, grasping Freddy's hand and putting the money into it. Listen, I know it's not much, but it might help. I know Victoria had to quit working at the shop, and...well, with her gone, things might get a little tight. I want you to have this.  
Freddy looked down at the money in his hand and shook his head. No, Peter, he said strongly, shoving the money back at him. I'm not going to accept any bloody _charity. _She's dead, I know, but that doesn't mean that I've got to take your pity. Give it to someone who needs it.  
Listen, Freddy, you bloody bastard, Godley snapped, taking the money and shoving it into the young man's coat pocket. It's not _charity_. It's a loan, you can pay me back when you get on your feet again. I'm your friend, not a bloody social worker.  
Freddy looked at the man for a moment and then nodded. Thank you, he said quietly. Thank you.  
Weren't nothing, Godley replied, then smiled a little. I heard you might be getting promoted soon, you know that? Inspector, they're thinking of making you.  
He showed little interest, but Godley persisted.   
It's an honour, a real honour, you know that, don't you? he grinned. Inspector Frederick Abberline. Has a rather nice ring to it, doesn't it?  
I suppose so.  
Now, listen, Freddy, Godley said sternly. I'm not going to let you wallow in your misery like this. Grief can kill a man as much as a bullet. Now, here's what I want you to do, he said, gripping his friend's shoulders and looking at him in the eyes. I want you to go out tonight. Go to a pub, go to a show, do something. Get out of the house and get away from those infernal relatives of hers. Do you hear me?  
But George...  
Oh, _fuck _the dog! I'll drop by and take him to our place. The important thing is that your get out and get your mind away from all of this, even if it is just for a few hours. You hear me, Abberline?  
He nodded slowly. Yes. I'll do that, see a show, I mean. Might...might raise my spirits.  
There's the spirit! Godley laughed, slapping his shoulders. Now, I've got to head out, but you take my words to heart, young man. The next time I see you, I want you to be suffering from a hangover, and maybe smiling a little. Can you do that for me?  
I'll try. Good day, Peter.  
Good day, Freddy. Take care of yourself. He smiled a little and turned away, stepping back over the dead grass. He left Abberline staring at the jackdaws.  
  
  
  



	2. Mary

  
  
Whitechapel District, 1:25 AM--  
  
  
  
Hey, there, love, why don't ye give it a suck?  
Ah, piss off! she snapped, tossing her head back and striding down the street towards the raucous doorway of the Ten Bells public house. She smiled at a woman in a red dress who was busy talking to another acquantence, one she didn't recognise. Evening. Liz. Any luck?  
The woman known as Long Liz Stride shook her head. None so far. How bout you?  
Nah. But the night's still young, she reminded, and opened the door.   
The Ten Bells was a noisy, smokey establishment that made little effort to hide its innate griminess. Drunken patrons hung onto each other as they roared into each others faces, and prostitutes vied for attention among the clusters of half-empty beer bottles that covered most of the tables. She fought her way through the crowds, casting glares at the men who tried to put their hands on her, and finally secured a spot at the bar, where a man stood, drying a glass and looking out at his customers in indifference.   
Hey, Mac, she greeted. Get me a bottle of your cheapest, won't ye?  
And when d;ya plan on payin' me, Mary Kelly? he asked, fixing her with a cold stare. Your tab's already three overdue.  
Ah, I'll get ye the money, Mac, ye know I will, she answered, sitting down on a rickety stool. I just need a little time, that's all. Now, are ye gonna get me my drink, or are we gonna spend all night blowin' smoke outta our rears?  
he grunted, and planted a bottle of scotch and a slightly dirty glass in front of her. But remember, you owe me.  
Aa, I'll pay you next week, she said, pouring herself a shot. As Mary sipped her drink, she noticed a man at the end of the bar, isolated from all the others. His clothing was elegant but disheveled, and he stared down at his drink with empty eyes that didn't seem to notice any of the activity around him. What's his story? she asked, pouring herself another drink. Ain't seen him round here before.  
Mac shrugged. His name's Abberline, he said. Used to be a beat cop round these parts. Ain't seen im in about a year. Don't know why he's back.  
She smiled. Looks like he's just come from Hell, she said. How long has he been sittin' there?  
Three hours, Mac answered. Throwin' money away like it ain't nothin'. And, no, don't ya think about it, he warned, noticing the glint that had come into her eye. Drunk or no, he's still a peeler and I don't want no business with them.  
Dearest Mac, she smiled. What in the world gave ye that idea? They're no friends of mine, I can tell ye that for free. she cast one last glance at him before turning her attention back to her drink. Although, he do make me wonder what the Hell he's doin' here...  
  
Hey, there, love, ya want me t'give it a suck?  
Abberline peered with bleary eyes at the black-haired woman leering into his face. It took him a moment or two to fully register what she had said. I...no! No, thank you... He rubbed his face, trying to cut through the haze in his mind. He'd spent nearly all he had in that blasted place, and it hadn't done the trick at all. He'd gone in there to forget, but each shot of fiery liquid only seemed to sear the memory of her death deeper into his mind. He narrowed his eyes and staggered forward, his mind pitching at the slightest movement, holding his arms out for support. He looked a buffoon to all passing, but he was beyond caring. He centred his entire concentration on getting onto Commercial Street, on getting a cab home. Home. If he could only get there, everything would be all right. A good sleep was all he needed. Yes, home...  
He looked up, blinking. He turned as well as he could, but could not discern his surroundings; for this he cursed himself, as he'd been on these streets for most of his professional career, and so should have been able to tell where he was. But, he reasoned with himself, he'd never been drunk at night on these streets. There was the difference.   
He walked forward unsteadily, trying to regain his composure as he passed the many whores and drunkards that frequented Whitechapel at night. Normally he would have been disgusted at this spectrum of humanity-- tonight, he found it almost comforting. It was strange the way a man could change in the course of a few hours.   
Abberline turned into a dark passageway that he knew cut into the next street. He was rather proud that he remembered such a minute detail, and so did not notice the dark shadow that snaked behind him, did not notice the heavy footsteps that echoed his. He didn't notice any of this, in fact, until he heard a sharp _crack_ and the back of his head erupted in pain, sending his numbed brain into shock. He pitched forward but was caught by rough hands that pulled him upright by a gigantic bulk of a man with a knife scar across his face that had seemed to drop from the sky. He didn't try to resist as his arms were seized roughly and pinned behind him, beery breath coming from a voice near his ear. Well, well, well. What ave we got   
Looks like a right toff, a second voice said, the man that it belonged to smiling as he came closer. He regarded his target in bemusement for a moment, and then his face twisted and he slammed his fist into Abberline's face. Abberline blinked for a moment, breathing heavily as pain coursed through his head, thanking God that his nerves were too dulled by drink to feel much else. The man grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up, the other hand pressing a small, glinting knife to his throat. Yeah, a right toff. And ye know we don't like toffs round these parts. Do we now, Robert?  
No, Charlie, we certainly don't, the man called Robert said. Check is pockets, Charlie. Might ave somethin' interestin'.  
Abberline stayed silent as Charlie rifled through his coat and jacket, turning out pockets and spilling the contents onto the stones at his feet. He pulled out a leather billfold and flipped it open, looking inside. His eyes lit up and he whistled. Look here, Robert, he said in astonishment. He's a peeler!  
A peeler? Robert tightened his grip on Abberline's arms and spoke into his ear, his words dripping in poison. Now, what are ye doin' here, peeler?  
I was about t'ask im the same thing meself, Charlie said, shoving the knife at his throat again. Well, now, what _are_ ye doin' out here for in such a state, guv'? Thought peelers weren't s'possed t'get drunk. Can getcha into trouble. As he spoke, he twisted the point of the knife slowly, methodically. Abberline felt the blade pierce his skin, and droplets of blood spurted up to splatter his collar and jacket with spots of crimson blood. Lots of trouble, the man grinned, showcasing a mouthful of broken teeth. What d'ya suppose would happen, Robert? the man asked. What d'ya suppose would happen, if our fine young man showed up with his throat cut? Ya think anyone would miss   
I dunno, the man called Robert answered. Looks like e ain't one of the tops in is field. Maybe they won't miss im much.  
Abberline looked at them apathetically for a moment, then craned his head up, baring his throat to the blade. If you want, he said calmly, slurring his words only slightly. Go ahead, sir. I won't stop you.  
The man with the knife widened his eyes in surprise for a moment before bursting out into raucous laughter. Go ahead, e says! he cried happily. Go ahead! Dammit, there's a good un for ye! Now, me dear peeler, what would ye say if I were to...  
  
They all turned at the shout. Standing in the mouth of the alleyway stood a woman, her arms crossed on her chest, her face angry. What the Robert muttered. What the ell are _you_ doin'   
Might as the same of you, she said, walking forward. She looked at them in disdain before speaking again. Ain't you got nothing to do but rob a drunk man? Really, you're gettin' below yourself, ain't ye?  
Ah, piss off, Charlie snapped. Ain't none of your business, no how. Who cares if a peeler gets cut? Less out ere, the better.  
_You_ should care, she replied. S'posse he's important, ye thought about that? and what happens if he shows up dead? The whole of fuckin' Whitechapel's gonna get cleared out, that's what! They don't look to kindly on cop killers.  
Charlie looked at her coldly for a moment longer, then tossed his head towards Robert. Ye eard er. Let im go.  
But, Charlie...  
Just do it, ye bastard! he snapped, pulling away the knife. Unless ye want t'end up in prison.  
Robert grunted a bit, and then released him. Abberline dropped like a sack of potatoes to crash onto the stones, jarring his shoulder and hip before falling still. Charlie's shadow cast over him, and then a foot slammed into his stomach, sending a shock wave of pain rippling through Abberline's body, setting his nerve endings on fire. He tasted blood in his mouth and gasped for air, watching blearily as the two men pushed past the woman to escape to the street. He coughed as she approached, a small scarlet trickle spilling from between his lips.   
Bloody bastards, she growled as she bent over him, turning him over onto his back. Hey, you all right? Can ye get up? He nodded dumbly and pushed himself up onto his knees. She pulled on his arm and helped him get to his feet, supporting him as he stood uneasily in the alleyway. She released him and bent down, picking up the items that had been scattered onto the stones by Charlie. she said, handing them back. I think that's everythin'. Charlie's a right bastard, but e can be scared off by prison. Now, c'mon, let me get a look at ye. She held his chin gently and moved his face side-to-side. Well, ye'll live, she announced. Not too bad. Now... she trailed off as she noticed the spotting on his shirt. Shite, you're bleeding! she cried, noticing the gash on his neck. Ah, Christ... She pulled out the handkerchief poking from his pocket and pressed it to the wound, frowning. Those sons-of-bitches. They really did a number on ye, didn't they?  
Abberline said nothing, but raised his head to look at her face for the first time. He blinked his bleary eyes, rubbing at them with his fist before trying to focus them again. he asked quietly, his voice disbelieving but hopeful.   
She looked at him for a moment and shook her head. Sorry, guv'. It's Mary, Mary Kelly. Though, I suppose I could be Victoria if ye want me to.  
He closed his eyes as she dabbed at the cut with his handkerchief. I'm sorry, he whispered. I thought...I thought you were someone else.  
That's all right, she said. Ain't the first time it's appened. What's your name, then?  
he said, catching his breath. It's Fred.  
Well, then, nice t'meet ya, Fred, she said. Here, lean on me, yer havin' a right hard time walkin'.  
He smiled as he stumbled forward, resting his weight on Mary's willing shoulder. Look at me, falling over myself, he said. You'd think I were drunk.  
Mary didn't say anything, but pushed through the throngs of people lining the dirty street, ignoring the amused gazes that they received. Where d'ya live? she asked after a while.   
He looked at her suspiciously from the corner of his eye.   
__ she asked, incredulously. You're drunk, beat up, and bleedin'. If I don't get ye home, who is?  
he muttered. 17 East Poplar. There's money in my coat pocket.  
Mary silently fished her hand into his pocket and pulled out the money, casting angry glares at the throngs that regarded the bills with envy. She raised up a hand at a coach passing by and shouted. she called. Hey, I got a sick man ere! Stop, won't ye?  
I'm not sick, he protested weakly.  
Yeah, and I'm the Pope. C'mon, she said to the cabdriver, who was looking at them with a bemused expression. Ain't ye never seen a man worse for wear? Help me with im, won't ye?  
The coachman pulled open the door and Mary helped Abberline into it, propping him up in his seat as the coach began to move. 17 Eat Poplar, she called up, and then turned back to Abberline. Hey, ye gonna be all right? Mary asked, noticing his blanched face. Ye gonna be sick?  
He shook his head. I'll be fine, he said. I'm just tired. So...bloody tired.  
Well, ye just hang on a little longer, she said, rubbing his back. Ye just hang on, yer almost home. What the Hell brought ye out ere tonight, anyway? she asked. This ain't really the right neighborhood for chaps like ye, is it?  
He shrugged. I suppose not, he said. Don't really know what I'm doing out here, myself.  
Right, well ye just sit tight, she told him. And you'll be home fore ye can say Jack Robinson'. Ye sure ye ain't gonna be sick on me?  
Yes, I'm sure, he said. If I was...oh, look. We're home.  
Mary looked up to see a cramped home, tall but plain, looming out of the night. There was a wreath nailed on the door and a small row of flowers in the window boxes. It must have been cheery during the day, but at night it was almost oppressively gloomy.   
The cabdriver opened the door and Mary shoved the money in his hand. He pocketed it quickly and looked at them. Do you need help...Miss? the driver asked, noticing Mary wrapping her arm around his passenger's waist. If you need...  
I'm fine! she snapped. Now, I gave ye the money, so shove off and let us alone.  
he nodded, climbing back to his post. A nice night to both of you!  
  
Right, so where's your...Ah! Right, get back! Back, dog, back! Mary kicked at the small dog that nipped at her feet, growling as it ran around them.   
Abberline groaned. Down, boy.  
The dog looked at him for a moment and then cocked his head, trotting back to his basket by the fire. Mary looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Real nice fellow, she commented, then looked around the parlour. Nice place ye got here, she said admiringly. Real nice.Ye live here by yourself?  
He nodded. I do now.  
She caught his tone and frowned. What? Someone die? she asked. She paused, noticing his expression. Sorry. If ye don't want t'talk about it, than y'don't hafta.  
Thank you, he said. I'd rather not. He removed his arm from her waist and held onto the back of a chair. I think I'll be fine from now on. Thank you.  
Mary looked at him and shook her head. If ye try t'get up those stairs yourself, you'll fall and break your neck. Here, let me help ye.  
he said, too tired to argue. Second door on the left. Watch the rug, it tends to slip.  
Mary heeded this advise as she helped him up the stairs, pausing every so often before tackling another one. When they finally reached his bedroom, she let go of him for a moment to turn up the gas lamp that hung low from the ceiling, her eyes adjusting to the sudden light. The bedroom was small, with clothing and personal items put down in haste and forgotten. She noticed a pair of ladies shoes by the dresser, and wondered for the first time whether her charge was married, and whether or not his wife would be too happy to find her husband in the arms of a Whitechapel unfortunate. She didn't ask these questions, however, and instead sat Fred' on the edge of his bed, loosening his tie before leaning him back on the pillows. she said, lifting his legs up onto the mattress. There, you'll be all right now. It was nice t'meet ye, Fred. If you're ever in Whitechapel again, look me up. Goodnight, now, and ye sober up.  
She turned, and was surprised to see his hand on her wrist. She looked back at him, and was started to see him looking up a her, his eyes alert and aware. Don't go, he said, looking up at her, his dark eyes pleading.   
She looked at the hand on her wrist, and then to his eyes, staring up at her intently. They seemed to her to be the oldest eyes in the world, dark and empty. Lonely, she realised. She sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. All right, she said softly. All right, if ye want me to.  
He looked at her a moment longer, and the corners of his mouth began to twitch up, almost against their will. Thank you, he whispered. Thank you, Mary Kelly. _Thank you._  
Mary sat, silent for a minute, unable to speak. Sitting on a bed of fresh linens, in a home on Poplar Road, surrounded by photographs of happier times and crushed by the waves of melancholia that radiated from this strange man in front of her, she felt a million miles away from the back streets of Whitechapel...and somehow, like she'd never left.   
And for Frederick Abberline, somehow it was all he needed. 


	3. Aftermath

  
  
  
  
  
  
At around seven o'clock the following morning, the sun finally broke free of the smothering blanket of clouds that had covered it for much of the month. Golden sunlight flooded down onto a startled London, casting a net of warm rays over every building, caressing everything from the gilded gates of Buckingham Palace to the tattered clothing of the rag pickers in Spitalfields. People breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden change of weather, casting off scarves and shawls and venturing outside to bask in the glow. Everything in the world seemed right at the moment.   
The sunlight streamed in through the cracks in the curtains of a cramped house on East Poplar Street, splashing against the walls and pictures and cutting a swath of light through the impenetrable gloom. George looked up from his basket and growled at the unexpected intruder, but then rested his head back on his paws as he saw that it held no malice towards his home. The sunlight kissed the little guardian's head before stalking silently up the stairs, floating above the rug that wasn't placed properly, and creeping around the corner to eye the firmly shut doors in careful consideration. It finally chose what it thought the proper one, and slid underneath the door to invade the room behind it.  
Mary Kelly squeezed her eyes tighter as the sunlight wrapped around her face, setting the crimson flames on her head alight. She held up a hand to block the intruder and opened her eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the strange sight. When they finally focused, they were drawn to the empty pair of ladies shoes standing at attention near the dresser, waiting diligently for their mistress to return. If she squinted, she could almost see the outline of the absent woman's feet in them, hear the rustle of petticoats that dropped over them...but, of course, there was nothing there. Somehow, she knew that there never would be. The only souls in the house were her, the dog...and Fred.  
Fred. She looked quickly to the bed, to see his still form underneath the blanket she'd covered him with. For a moment her heart slowed to a crawl as he didn't move, but resumed normally when she heard him take a breath. It would have been a bad sight if she were to come out of a strange house, in a neighbourhood where she didn't belong, leaving a peeler dead in his bedroom.  
A peeler...oh, Christ. She'd managed to forget that fact until it hit her like the fist of an unhappy customer. Here she was, an Unfortunate, a sworn hater of the police, sitting next to one. Not only that, but she'd helped him get here. _Helped_ him! Her scalp crawled as she imagined herself sitting in the Ten Bells and hearing the accusing questions, feeling the sharp glances. So, tell me, Mary, she heard Dark Annie say. Where were you last night? Didn't see you at all.  
I saw her, Liz answered, her sharp mouth turning up into a smile. She was with that man Abberline...you remember im, Annie, used to be a Constable round here, used to bust us up all the time. I saw er helping im into a cab, I did.  
Did you now? Annie asked, her face clouding up. And what would you be doin' with the likes of dear Mister Abberline, may I ask?  
Oh, _shut up!_ Mary roared, and the apparitions vanished into the sunlight. She heard a groan from the bed and shook her head, touching his shoulder. Aa, no, I didn't mean you, Fred. Go on back t'sleep, I ain't botherin' ye.  
he mumbled, still mostly asleep. Is that you?  
Mary Kelly opened her mouth to speak and closed it again before the word could come out. Well, he was asleep, anyway. What harm could it do? she said, trying her best to mask her brogue with a reasonably middle-class accent. Yes, Fred. Go back to sleep.  
He squeezed his eyes tighter, a smile spreading across his face. I thought it was you, he whispered. I thought so.  
Go on back to sleep, she said again, resting her hand on his shoulder. You don't need to be up now.  
Mary Kelly waited for a moment, until she saw his chest rise and fall gently, her charge reclaimed by slumber. She turned and walked quickly out of the bedroom, closing the door gently behind her and hurrying down the stairs, minding the rug as she took the steps two at a time. She didn't know why she was rushing downstairs to the parlour, past the photographs and the furniture, the relics of a happier time. Her heart felt as if a hand was tightening around it, a snake wrapping around her entire body, imprisoning her, constricting her. She was overcome by a desire to leave the place, to leave the man lying asleep in his bed above her. She couldn't say why, but her feet seemed to move of their own accord.  
She paused for a moment, her hand on the doorknob, and closed her eyes, breathing in the smells of the home. When she opened her eyes again, they fell on a picture hanging on the wall that she hadn't noticed the night before, a picture of a young couple, no more than twenty years of age, standing stiffly before the camera. Their faces were placid, unaffected by their surroundings, and the only hint of what the photograph meant to either of them was the small bouquet that the young woman held in her hand. Mary peered closer at the photograph, and was startled to see something unexpected-- their eyes. For despite the stiff formality of the portrait, their hard faces and rigid poses, no rules of society had been able to force them to feel anything but happiness on their wedding day, even if the only way they could express it was through their eyes, which shone with joy, even through the glass of the frame.  
Mary opened the door slightly, smiling at the young woman who stood there, so proudly by her new husband's side. You're a lucky woman, Victoria, she told her. Ain't often ye find a man as good as yours.  
Mary gazed one last time at the portrait, and stepped into the sunlight.


End file.
